


Spring Cleaning

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Gen, hobbitfic, pretty good year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-09-08
Updated: 2002-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:33:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty Good Year (WOTM) fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring Cleaning

Frodo winced a little as Rosie threw back the curtains, but she bit her tongue and resolved herself not to comment on it; pressing her lips together briefly then turning from the window back to the bed.

"Well there's no doubt it's springtime outside, even if it doesn't feel like it in here," she said breezily; and Frodo's eyelashes fluttered on his stark cheekbones as his mouth twisted into what might have been intended as a smile; but didn't look entirely painless.

"I think I'll stay in bed for a little longer," Frodo said, not fooling Rosie in the least with his light tone frayed at the edges. "Sam will be out and about in the garden, and you in the house; I wouldn't want to get in your way."

Rosie clucked her tongue. "Wouldn't want to risk having to do any _work_, you mean," she said, nevertheless straightening the covers neatly over Frodo's chest. He didn't open his eyes, cold fingers creeping slowly to grip the edge of the blanket then lock together over his chest; becoming even whiter in the struggle to suppress shaking.

Something caught in Rosie's throat, somewhere between anger and helplessness, and she swallowed hard as she straightened again, looking down to where Frodo seemed to have sunk into the bed, or collapsed in on himself; all warmth from countless nights before banished by the unsteady line of his body under the covers. An indignant cry came from the direction of the kitchen; Sam had no doubt taken Frodo-lad in there when he'd woken before them in the morning, mindful of his son's rather enthusiastic cries upon waking.

"Both Frodos are awake now, it seems," Rosie said brusquely, relieved at having an excuse to break out of the feel of lethargic despair permeating the room.

*

Rosie was greeted to the sight of a tiny bare foot - still young enough to be mostly hairless - thrust up into the air, straight as a beech; and arrived just in time to see a second foot follow it, tiny fingers gripping onto the thick knit of the sock and pulling it off; the action accompanied with a cry of triumph. She managed to catch the flying sock just before it hit the floor, scooping up the first as well where it rested an impressive distance from the cradle.

Frodo pulled a face as she tried to slip them back on his feet, kicking frantically and gnashing gums, and Rosie eventually gave in. "All right, then, if you don't think you need them." She lifted him up with a swinging motion; he squealed in delight. "You can probably feel the Spring like your Da, can you?" He kicked again in excitement, promptly taking one of her loose curls in his fist and shoving his whole hand in his mouth.

Rosie sighed; knowing the strength of her son's grip enough to understand it was useless trying to retrieve the curl now that he had a hold of it, and she grinned and blew a raspberry on his already-sticky cheek. Startled, he pulled back a little, mouth still stuffed full, and looked at her in wide-eyed amazement. Blue eyes; but then all babies had blue eyes at first; and his hair was rich wheat-gold like Sam's, not the wispy white cotton of babyhood either. He was growing fast, as Elanor had done; already rewarding them with enthusiastic (if slightly uncoordinated) movements and seemingly random sounds of delight or disapproval. Rosie poked out her tongue at him and screwed up her face, and was rewarded with a grumble and a very wet hand patting at her cheek, slimy fingers creeping into the corners of her mouth. She laughed.

 

*

Rosie could hear Sam's quiet, intent voice coming from outside when she returned to the bedroom. The room was filled with the fresh scent of the morning already; air and soil and grass and pollen already creeping into breath, and she plopped the baby down on the bed by Frodo's still form and eyed the room critically. The new light had revealed surfaces made dull with dust; and the slow dancing of motes in the beam of sunlight where her footsteps had called them up from the rug. The baby made a determined grunting sound, then latched one plump fist on the join of Frodo's fingers; pulling them apart and drawing one up to his mouth, sucking thoughtfully.

"Has he been fed, Rose?" Frodo asked, blearily gazing at the baby from half-lidded eyes. "He seems awfully hungry."

"If he was hungry, we'd sure know about it," Rosie replied, beginning to push the furniture off the rug and into the corners of the room. "And he had a feed shortly before dawn; that's why he's slept so long now." She glanced back to the bed for a moment, pressing the slight ache in the small of her back from pushing a heavy armchair. "And at least he isn't biting his own nails. We don't want him to get into that habit."

Frodo ignored the faint note of reproval in her voice and shifted slightly, pushing himself a little further up on pillows and watching his namesake intently. "Maybe he's teething?"

"Perhaps he is. Can you feel anything?"

Fine bones shifted in the back of his hand as Frodo moved his fingers carefully over the baby's gums. Frodo-lad gave a surprised (and surprisingly loud) _gah_, and gripped the hand tighter with his fists. Frodo laughed. "Maybe. I can't feel that any have broken through, at any rate."

"No," Rosie said thoughtfully as her son made his odd, unique buzzing sound of contentment, somewhat muffled by Frodo's fingers. "I suppose we'd know if he was; he seems a fair sight noisier than Ellie ever was, and she screamed like there was no tomorrow when she was teething."

"I suppose you're right," Frodo said, then grinned a little. "As always." Rosie mock-scowled, making a shooing gesture in his direction.

"I'll have none of that lip from you, or you can get right out of that bed now and help me beat the rugs instead of laying about with the baby."

*

"Hullo, Frodo-lad," Frodo murmured after Rosie had left the room, hauling the rug behind her and followed by a cloud of dust. The baby grunted again, tightening the squeeze of his sticky fingers. "You have quite a grip there." Frodo shifted a little again, cautiously -- his body still felt as if it were made up of broken glass, held together with his thin skin -- and rested on his side, curled about where the baby sat. He could hear Sam's voice outside, closer to the window now, patiently explaining why daisies were white. Frodo-lad perked up a bit at the sound of his father's voice, taking the fingers out of his mouth (but still holding them tight in his fist) and attempting to crawl towards the sound. He floundered slightly on the softness of the mattress and lurched forward, tiny hands landing on Frodo's side and gripping tight for support; legs wobbling unsteadily.

Frodo tensed; expecting pain at the sudden contact -- even the slightest touch could burn like ice sometimes -- but the only sensation was the warmth of the tiny hands spreading through the blankets and onto his skin. "Well," he said a little more forcefully than he had intended; realising he'd been holding his breath. Frodo-lad looked up at him in surprise, then stuck out his tongue and made a rather wet buzzing noise; obviously something he'd only learnt recently from the amount of baby-spit that now covered his chin.

Frodo lifted a hand and exaggeratedly wiped his face. "Why thankyou for that, I needed a bath." The baby laughed, bouncing in delight then freezing with another look of amazement as he discovered the movement it created on the soft surface of the bed.

"Where's Frodo?" came Sam's slightly raised voice from outside the window. Both of the Frodos inside perked up a little at the mention of their name.

"Inside, both of them," came Rosie's voice, slightly breathless, then the sound of a faint _whoomp_ as she heaved the rug over the line. "You could probably see them through the window, if you were so inclined."

There was a silence for a moment, except for the dull _thwomp_ of the beater on the rug; then a head, bright with golden curls, appeared above the windowsill. "Fo!" Elanor squealed, waving her grasping hands into the room, and Sam adjusted his grip around her chest a little before peering into the room also.

"Still in here, then, slugabeds!" Sam said, mock-sternly; but nevertheless with a note of concern in his voice. He already had a smear of dirt across his cheekbone; Elanor had several. Frodo grinned at him weakly; Frodo-lad increased his bounces to match his excitement.

"Some of us _like_ winter, you know," Frodo said imperiously, then "Oof!" as the baby lost his footing and landed heavily. Frodo-lad's face began to crumple, but with the offer of another finger he was soon sucking happily again.

"Only because it gives them an excuse to lay about even longer," Sam retorted, and Frodo raised an eyebrow; remembering long mornings that bled into nightfall, endless hours in bed, warm and sleepy. "Besides," Sam said, smiling. "It's spring now, time to do your laying about *out*side."

Frodo-lad made a guttural noise of concentration and Sam wrinkled his nose. "Yuck!" Elanor declared, wriggling out of his grasp. Frodo looked up at Sam desperately.

"If that's Frodo-lad needing to be changed, those of us who *don't* have work to do can take care of it," Rosie's voice called out with a note of finality, and Sam shook his head apologetically before disappearing from the window once more; sweeping up Elanor (or so it sounded) as she made another shrieking round of the garden.

Frodo looked at the baby again; who didn't seem to be at all apologetic, gazing up at him with wide eyes. Frodo sighed, sitting up tentatively, trying to decide what was worse: a baby with a soiled nappy or recurring memories of a trip to Mordor.

*

Several other rugs had joined the first thrown over the line by the time Frodo finally stepped out of the smial on shaky legs, Frodo-lad heavy but gripped firm in his arms. The baby squealed and held out chubby arms as they approached a rather sweaty and dusty Rose, who wiped at the dust-sweat on her brow ineffectually with her forearm before leaning forward to kiss her son briefly on the nose, creeping fingers up his sides until he shrieked and kicked.

"Hoy, there," Frodo protested, struggling to maintain a hold on the wriggling baby; and Rosie straightened to give him an apologetic peck on the nose before turning back to haul the rugs off the line again. Frodo walked on a little further; lowering himself shakily to the grass near where Sam was working -- freeing new shoots from the grasp of bitter winter plants -- and leaning back on his elbows, closing his eyes to the brightness of the sunlight and soaking it up with his skin instead. Frodo-lad sat in the grass by his hip; grasping earnestly for the butterflies that wafted around them lazily.

The quiet hiss of grass and Sam's soft chuckle was the only warning Frodo got before a pair of small but rather strong arms wrapped around his neck; and he opened his eyes to blink into blonde curls and then squint at Elanor's determined face as she drew back a little to press a firm kiss to the corner of his mouth. She had a white daisy tucked behind her ear; still crisp and fresh as the day, and her breath was warm and smelt like jam as she whispered, "Mummy said to keep quiet because you weren't feeling well," and raised a finger to her lips solemnly.

"That's a pretty flower," Frodo said, lifting his hand to trace the shape of her ear; feeling his limbs tingle as the sunlight slowly warmed him from the outside in. Elanor giggled and plucked another blossom from the green ocean of grass, pushing back Frodo's hair with tiny hands to thread it behind his ear. Frodo-lad gave an explosive shout (as he tended to do quite frequently), and Elanor crooned at him before tucking a flower behind his ear as well. The baby smacked his gums together and reached up a hand curiously to the tickle above his ear then grasped the offending flower in his fist and shoving it into his mouth.

Elanor wrinkled her nose. "Baby's hungry," she declared; still struggling to comprehend that this squirmy little baby could be Fo when Fo was sitting on the grass beside her, tall and sad. She plucked another handful of daisies and laid them reverently on Frodo's chest then, encouraged by his smile, crawled a little further away to find more.

"Well, there'll not be much need for clipping the grass this season," Sam said reflectively as he stood from a nearby flowerbed and stretched, watching his daughter deposit yet another bouquet onto Frodo. Frodo grinned up at him, patting the grass nearby. Frodo-lad bleated held out his arms in demand as Sam lowered himself to the ground; then crooned in delight as he was swept up. Elanor added more flowers to the rapidly growing pile.

"Good to see you two are getting so much done," Rosie's voice came from above them, poking her head out of the bedroom window again, grumbling good-naturedly.

"All work and no play . . ." Sam protested lightly. "Come and join us, lass, you're probably in more sore need of a break than the rest of us."

"Rest of us indeed," Rosie sniffed once she'd joined them on the grass, eying Frodo and softening her tone with a quirking of the corner of her mouth. "As if I don't do enough for you already, now I'm spring cleaning this great hole all on my own."

Frodo shrugged. "Why else do you think I invited you both to live with me? Sam does well enough taking care of the outside, but-- ouch!" Frodo tried unsuccessfully to look affronted as Rosie cuffed him lightly.

Sam laughed, and Rosie glared at him, mock-stern; then threw her hand against her forehead dramatically. "As if bearing your children wasn't enough!" she mourned; and both Frodo and Sam laughed as Frodo-lad chose that moment to grumble and snort. Elanor returned with another fistful of flowers; her trips taking longer and longer as she went further afield.

"Well I'd bear the children if I could," Frodo said soothingly. "And then you could do all the cooking and whatnot without complaint."

"I'm sure you would, Master Baggins!" Rosie retorted with a laugh. "And I won't pretend you haven't been trying!" she laughed anew at his still-irrepressible blush; though he grinned right back at her. "And we both know that Sam is the master of the kitchen, no matter who's bearing the children." Elanor returned again; carefully placing a slightly crushed bundle of flowers atop the others then collapsing into her mother's lap. Rosie adjusted her position a little to allow the girl to wriggle more comfortably into her lap, then wrapped her arms around her daughter loosely. Elanor nuzzled her face closer, then sneezed as the dust lightly coating Rosie crept into her nose.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked Frodo, lying back on the grass as Frodo-lad wormed away after another butterfly.

Frodo shifted around a little, rested his head on Sam's belly, hearing the gurgle of his stomach and feeling firm muscles under a layer of healthy hobbit-flesh. "Better," he murmured; his voice half-muffled to him with the constant rushing rumble of Sam's life under his ear.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/6035.html


End file.
